


With the Devil

by AkadaNao



Category: Childhood's End (TV), Childhood's End (book)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Aliens, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Drama, Erotica, F/M, Operas, Other, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Science Fiction, Stanford University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkadaNao/pseuds/AkadaNao
Summary: Humans have grown accustomed to their benevolent alien overloads, yet a particularly sensitive area remains untouched in this relationship. Esther Ward, PhD, celebrity scholar, general malcontent, will cross the taboo barrier for science, of course. Will her prestigious reputation - or that of her extraterrestrial counterpart - survive?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

“SURELY you must know how this works,” Esther teases, though she’s not entirely sure herself.

“It’s one thing to know in theory, entirely different to put that theory into practice.” Rasmus responds coolly, though he looks down on her with a soft gaze.

They stand a few feet apart facing one another. A weighty expectancy, both awkward and thrilling, fills the dim room aboard his vessel.

After months of discussion on human psychology, their conversation had gradually turned to the subject of sexuality. What began as frank and clinical, purely an effort to discover more about the other species, slowly became more personal. His demeanor became more convivial and hers more playful. Before long, they admitted to desires long suppressed or barely entertained, only to discover they were one in the same.

So here they were.

Rasmus had greeted her in less clothing than she had ever seen an Overloard. Having shed the armor-like layer they always wore, he stood before her uncovered from the waist up and unselfconscious. His physicality was utterly foreign and truly glorious under his skin of swirling crimson.

The purpose of their meeting tonight was absolutely clear, though she knows little of what to expect. For starters, this room - furnished with a bed and little else - is both surprising and skintillating. After all, her understanding was that the Overloards did not sleep. She pushes the thought away, distracted by his incredible, bizarre physique. She could not have imagined such a body, even after the time they had spent together. Less brawn than she had expected and more sinew, but not a hint of softness anywhere.

They say little as she removes her jacket and boots. She does not hide her unabashed gaze and curious assessment of his form. The newness of this body before her, it’s completely unknown and mysterious geography, makes her feel an urgent flutter. The buildup to this moment alone had ripened her to a state of barely contained lust, and he hadn’t even touched her.

She’s tempted to throw herself at him, explore his body with her hands. She imagines grabbing his thick waist and pulling his great mass towards her, on top of her. But she’s resolute they take their time, play by human rules.

“Your words may have brought me this far,” she says lightly, “but touch is a rather essential ingredient, you know.”

He approximates a human smile and reaches out to her. She leans toward his touch, madly eager, but when his hand is laid heavily upon her head, she winces.

“Not like that! I’m not a child.”

He quickly moves his hand to her shoulder in what feels a chumley manner. She rolls her eyes. For all their infinite and comprehensive knowledge of Earth and its inhabitants, she expected the Overloards to have a greater understanding of human sexuality. Apparently she would need to help him along with the subtleties.

She glances about the room for something to stand on.

“Come here,” she says, spotting a low table. The added height brings them closer to eye-level, though he’s still nearly a head taller.

She beckons him closer until they are only inches apart.

“Now,” she nearly whispers, reaching her hand toward his bear chest. “Softly. Like this.”

She traces her fingertips across the upper portion of his chest. This is the musculature that controls his arms and bears the most resemblance to a human pectoral. His arms hang softly at his sides; his disposition is mellow and calming. She realizes few, if any, humans have touched one of the Overloards, particularly in such an intimate way. She pulls her eyes from the exploration of her fingers and sees him watching her intently, but she cannot read him as she would a human man. She can’t hear his breath or smell his musk and though his expression is soft, it’s also quiet. She remembers his words about human lives burning fast and bright, full of a passion unknown to his race, and she suddenly feels ashamed. Can he sense her primitive, animal-like desire? Can he smell the subtle shift in her chemistry as her body yearns for physical passion? She pulls her fingers away tentatively, suddenly unsure.

As if reading her thoughts, he grabs her hand, impossibly tiny and pale in his, and brings it to his face. He holds her gaze for a heartbeat before pressing the back of her fingers to his cheek. His eyes close and he leans into her touch. She catches her breath and, rather more eagerly than she intends, places the open palm of her free hand to the other side of his face. Cradling his head in such a manner she is again struck by his size and weight. She’s reminded of an equine creature; it’s proportions so much larger and more powerful than that of a human, yet still docile and self-possessed.

She brushes her free thumb under his eye to the hollow of his cheek and marvels at the softness of his skin. Not soft exactly, but very smooth and almost completely devoid of the features that mar any human complexion. As she looks closer, she can’t see any pores or tiny creases nor can she feel heat radiating from beneath his dark skin. Even its resilience is unfamiliar under the pressure of her fingers. It’s as if he’s made of lifeless wax.

This train of thought gives her pause. She becomes aware that she’s inadvertently pulling herself from the moment. Detaching from others; that’s always been her speciality. Casting a cold, analytical gaze to what should be a moment of emotional and physical pleasure. You want this, she reminds herself, but a dire uncertainty begins to churn in her stomach.

So lost in thought, she is jarred when he wraps an arm around her waist. His hand caressing her outer thigh from the top of her knee, over her hip, and along the side of her rib cage in one movement. The stiff fabric of her suit crumples uncomfortably under his touch and she reaches for the zipper at the back of her skirt.

He pauses, hovers his hands just over her body as she begins to disrobe. He stares with what Esther sees as hungry desire as she slides the skirt down over the pink, silk slip she chose specially for this day. She steps out of the skirt and allows it to fall off the table to the floor as she begins to unbutton her chiffon blouse. He watches her actions closely but makes no movement to assist. She does not hurry with the buttons and finds a renewed pleasure in this strip tease. She watches him watch her unbutton the top button and slowly open the shirt, exposing her naked decolletage. He reaches up with both hands and delicately pulls the fabric from her shoulders and down her arms. He casts it unceremoniously to the floor, never removing his eyes from her body, and places his hands on her upper arms. She is still, waiting eagerly for his next move.

His hands creep up her arms to her neck and then, coming together with flat palms, he sweeps them slowly down her chest, over her breasts and stomach, and back to her hips. He feels her dimension carefully, the two thumbs on either of his hands acting like calipers, gently pinching her from the back and abdomen at the same time. The sensation is thrillingly exotic as he moves his hands around her silk-shrouded body. It feels as if she is being fondled by several sets of powerful hands at once. She emits a breathy moan with surprised pleasure and closes her eyes, allowing her head to lull to one side.

When she opens her eyes again, he is looking into her face with curiosity. His eyes are intense and lucid; excited, even.

“Keep going,” she breathes.

Grabbing the lace hem of her slip between his thumbs and forefingers, he peels the garment upwards, revealing her pale thighs, nude underwear, and soft stomach. She lifts her arms and with a flourish, the slip is over her head and on the floor next to her blouse.

His eyes travel down her form greedily, just like any mans would. She stands like a Grecian statue upon the table, relishing his gaze. When he reaches for her panties she sways her hips away, halting his movements. She smiles coyly at him and places her hands on her hips. There should be an order to these things, after all.

“Suddenly so shy?” He asks amusedly, pulling away a bit.

She glances down to his trousers. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Not just yet,” he says, shaking his head slowly.

She feels her stomach tighten once more. Should she be frightened?

His fingers slip under her chin, raising her gaze to his own, and she can’t help but trust him. So gentle, he seems, yet so unknowable. She has never known a time without the Overloards and did not, could not fear them. She had been suspicious; she had practically built her career on it! But in this moment she was willing to let that go. She was not alone in thinking of their dominion of Earth as paternal in nature and, just for the time being, she found herself eager to relent to his gentle commands.

After a moment he turns his attention to her bosom as if pondering its appeal. He reaches around her back and delicately fingers the clasp of her brassiere. Using his dexterous fingers, the clasp snaps open quickly and he pulls the straps from her shoulders. Now exposed, he once again gazes at her breasts in an odd manner. He crouches down until he’s eye level with them and she wonders if she’ll have to explain the nature of breasts to him. But with some deliberation, he brings his mouth to her nipple and allows his serpentine tongue to sneak out and caress its perimeter. She shudders and in an instant her skin is covered in goose bumps. He jerks his head back in surprise at this, but his demeanor brightens, obviously delighted.

He brings both hands up to cup her breasts and leans his face in more forcefully. His mouth nearly encapsulates the whole of her breast and she giggles aloud at the sensation. His breath is hot after all!

She wraps both hands around the back of his head, running her fingers through his silken hair. Nearly the same color as his skin, it is very fine, like that of an infants’, but thick and short, like fur. It grows uninterrupted all the way down his back, between his wings, disappearing beneath the waist of his trousers. The prehensile tongue of his snakes its way down her abdomen to the top of her underwear. In a burst of excitement, she grasps his scalp and pulls his head forcefully against her chest as she feels her heart beating hot and wet between her legs. Another deep moan escapes from her throat.

With a decisive movement, his arms wrap around her mightily and he lifts her from the table. She feels light as air but still grips his neck tightly. When he deposits her on the bed, he stands above her, looking powerful and god-like despite his devilish appearance. She reaches up to him and he obediently sinks down beside her, looking into her softened eyes, only inches above her face. She feels drunk with desire, but he goes no further. She pulls him down and locks her lips over his rigid mouth, kissing the top, then the bottom lip. He smiles at this and she uses the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth, running it across his closed teeth. As his teeth part, she eagerly forces her tongue deeper, searching, when suddenly his slips over her own and into her mouth. Exceptionally long and thin, its dexterity gives her a shock as he explores the inside of her mouth. Resisting an instinctive urge to pull away, she instead focuses on the taste of him. Like their slightly acidic smell, his mouth tastes of sweet vinegar or spoilt wine, but his temperature is unexpectedly and exceptionally hot. She thinks of mulled wine in the winter and is soothed.

When he pulls away his eyes are wide; the experience undoubtedly as foreign to him as it was to her. He rocks to the side as he brings his hand to his mouth, wiping away her saliva. They both laugh.

“That’s a kiss,” she breathes.

“I rather think that was something else!”

She bites her lips and looks up at him through her heavy lashes.

“Divine,” he whispers, leaning in to once more partake of her lips.

She hears a soft shudder and is startled to see a great canopy opening above them. He pauses and, with a knowing flash in his eyes, stretches his wings to an impressive span behind him.

“Oh,” she catches her breath. Another novelty of the evening.

As they unfold she can see the skin between each articulated digit is no thicker than the webbing between her fingers and possessing a certain translucency. They flex slowly and deliberately and she knows he is displaying for her. He beats them once, though very gently, and she feels a cool woosh of air rush over her. Though neither wing seems stretched to full capacity, they easily span twenty feet and barely fit within the dimension of the room. When he pulls them in again, he lets them droop to either side, enclosing them in a cocoon.

Questions race through her mind, but she finds her words missing. Seeing her speechless, Rasmus chuckles from deep within his chest and leans toward her again, placing his hand on her chest. He allows his thumbs to lightly caress the bottom of her breasts as he looks her over, careful not to rest his weight on top of her. She shakes away her analytical mind and refocuses on the moment. She is ready for him.

Grasping his hand in hers, she leads it slowly down her abdomen. Taking her cue, he pulls the fabric of her underwear downward. She lifts her hips as he slides them off her legs. Unhurriedly, he untangles them from her feet and sets them aside. He runs his hand back up the length of her leg until he reaches the soft curls of her pubic hair. He plays his fingers through gently before using his middle finger to trace a trail down, down, and between her lips. She exhales and opens her legs a bit wider. Ever so lightly he maneuvers his finger through the corridors of her vulva, feeling each part of her sex with almost gynaecological precision. When he reaches her clitoris and plays upon it ever so delicately, she spasms with pleasure, her breath coming in a sudden, ragged intake. So he had studied something!

But it’s his next move that catches her by surprise: with his finger still upon her clitoris, he stretches a thumb down until he finds her deepest crevice and slowly slides it inside. His hand feels custom made for her anatomy as he works his thumb inside her and finger just above. Her breathing comes quick as a great swelling builds inside. She raises her hips toward him and he presses his other hand down upon her pubic bones, emulating the weight of another body on top of her. She grasps at the fabric of the bed, her chest, up to her face. As he slows and quickens his tempo, she’s tempted to stop him, to delay her pleasure, but she can not. As her breath becomes more frantic, he grabs her thigh tightly and runs his hand down the back of her leg to the sensitive skin behind her knee, and down her calf. With a sudden convulsion and unintelligible cry, a great rush of intense, blinding sensation fills her being and pulses through every inch of her flesh. Her body slakens and she exhales long and deep, spent.

He removes his hand, wipes it casually on the bed beside her, and pulls himself toward her face once more. She lays a limp hand on his cheek and cannot control her drunken grin. Though her lids are heavy, she sees him searching her face with awe.

“Amazing,” he says, touching her cheek. “Your body…” but he trails off.

Esther sighs contentedly. “I’ll return the favor.” But she is so tired. “Just let me recuperate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image credit: The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun by William Blake (National Gallery, public domain)


	2. Chapter 2

ESTHER’S eyes open slowly. The lighting in the room has changed and vague shadows streak across the walls. Sitting up slowly, she realizes she slept very deeply, likely due to the enriched oxygen of the room. She tries to shake away the soothing fog that grips her mind as she looks about the room. She is alone. In fact, there is no evidence that Rasmus was ever here. Her clothes are strewn about sloppily, but otherwise there seems to be no sign of habitation or personality in this vessel. 

Another shadow races across the gray walls. When she turns around she is shocked to see a picture window spanning the entire length of the rear wall. She had thought it only the unadorned stern of the small ship the night before! Movement beyond the window gives her another start and she quickly grabs for the blanket under which she had slept.

She stands, heart racing as she wraps the blanket around her nakedness. Taking a few tentative steps toward the window she begins to register what she sees: an incomprehensibly large terrarium room, lit from above by a skylight of sorts, though it was much dimmer and rosier in hue than the morning sun on Earth. Below grew organic forms--plants and trees, perhaps--in shades from red to blue surrounding obscured corridors and cubicles. Hugging the circumference and height of the concave walls were innumerable rectangular windows, presumably belonging to many rooms like the one in which she stood, appearing something like the rounded kernels on an ear of corn.

But what was dropping from the windows held her frozen. At intervals, individuals of the Overloards’ race were stepping out onto a narrow platform, spreading their expansive wings, and launching themselves into the open space, gliding gently downward to the corridors below. They did not flap or soar like some great bird, merely floated down like a paper airplane.

She wonders with sudden urgency if they can see through the windows as clearly as she can see out. She moves backward only to step on the edge of the blanket and lose her footing. She lands hard on her elbows and scrambles back, flipping over, and searching like mad for her discarded clothing.

She gathers the various pieces of her wardrobe, but where are her underwear? Never mind; she fastens the bra, yanks the slip over her head, and jumps into the skirt. As she fumbles with the buttons of her blouse she pauses, taking a breath. Surely he didn’t leave her here, exposed? Would he come back?

Glancing around the room she sees her coat and handbag hanging by the entrance. Thank God for small favors! At least she’ll be able to cover the wrinkled mess she’s wearing. She digs through her bag searching for her handheld--could she possibly get signal here, wherever she was?--but no luck. It’s long since lost power.

She sighs and looks over the room again, sure to stay away from the window, just in case.

The monochromatic bed, table (her platform from last night), and single chair provide no clues. She grabs her boots and walks to the edge of the bed. As she leans over to lace them, something with color catches her eye. On a shelf next to the bed sits a small, red cylinder. Climbing over the spongy mattress, she snatches the cylinder from the shelf and studies it in her hands. It’s lightweight, only about five inches long, and coated in a rubbery shell. She can’t find any buttons or way to open it, though there are a few hairline grooves and holes. She runs her fingernail through the groove, trying in vain to pick it apart. For all she knows, this could be another one of the Overloards’ magical pieces of technology or just some mundane object, like a pill bottle.

Just then, the room shudders. She bolts upright and sees the shadows on the floor stretching and contorting. The room was receding from wall. As the terrarium-like space (perhaps aviary was more appropriate?) shrinks from view, the room’s movement smoothes and becomes imperceptible. The windows go blank as they had been the night before. So each room was also a ship. She was learning more of the Overloards in less than a day then surely anyone on Earth had gleaned in a half century. With any luck, this vessel would deposit her right back where it had picked her up and no one would be the wiser.

Rasmus was directed into a secondary meeting room. Though the purpose of this meeting was initially unclear, upon entering the room he knew all. Before him stood Vardalic, director of policy and control, and three members of his committee. A recorder hovered in the corner; the words spoken in this room would be part of the permanent record.

“Rasmus. Sit.” Vardalic directs him to the chair before them.

“I’ll stand.”

Vardalic only nods slightly before signaling the recorder. A small tray emerges from behind and comes to a halt just in front of Rasmus’s left hand. Looking down at the tray, he catches his breath, but quickly corrects his demeanor not to show his shock.

Laid out neatly on the tray is Esther’s delicate undergarment from the night before. A whitish smear could be easily seen in the crotch of the garment; an unmistakable sign of what had transpired to cause it.

Rasmus’s eyes flash upward to Vardalic. Though an admission of guilt was unnecessary, he had already exposed himself clearly enough. To feign innocence would be laughable.

Vardalic and the committee members remain very still for an uncomfortable moment before speaking.

“This,” he begins, “is not unexpected. Disappointing, yes, but not unexpected.”

Rasmus says nothing but realizes with some embarrassment that he’s involuntarily pulled his wings very close to his body. He may as well have been flailing his arms and crying out in a human-like fashion.

“Like any of us that are chosen to interact directly with the humans, you were placed with great care and entrusted with enormous responsibility,” Vardalic continues. “Given your background, it seemed pairing you with this human female was a safe and reasonable choice.”

Rasmus feels a nervous flicker of doubt. His actions were not without purpose, but Vardalic could just as easily end his research.

“Have you any response?” Vardalic asks at length.

Rasmus hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “There is … important information we do not yet understand. These creatures are experiential, tactile. Of the flesh.”

Vardalic tilts his head slightly with interest.

“What they write in their books, what they say, is only partial truth. To understand their deeper nature, one must experience, as they do.”

“Experiencing their sexuality was not your directive.” Vardalic cuts in sternly.

“Their psychology--their subconscious--and their sexuality are inextricable,” Rasmus presses on. “One cannot be understood fully without the other.”

“Yours is a willful deviation from our main directive,” Vardalic’s voice rises in frustration.

Rasmus opens his mouth to say more but is stopped short.

“Not only that, it jeopardizes our ultimate mission. Do you fail to see that even a single individual can influence their ultimate progression? Change their destiny?”

“But there’s so much more to them ...” Rasmus trails off.

“Yes, and so we study. But we cannot violate the trust we have cultivated.

“You say we do not understand human sexuality. Well, we understand enough to know the weight of this experience. We know it is deeply entrenched in their being. We needn’t--we must never--partake to understand least we alter their predestined course.”

“My objective-”

“Your objective has been compromised.” Vardalic states flatly.

The committee members exchange knowing glances as Rasmus’s eyes fall to the floor in submission.

“Perhaps you have been seduced by this learning,” Vardalic says. “Too entrenched in the humans’ ideas of their own mind, you take their beliefs for truth. Do you forget we have a millennia of objective observation on our side? Who better than we to understand their minds?

“If you can no longer separate your mind from theirs, your directives from their desires, then you are no longer qualified for this task.”

The committee murmurs in agreement.

“Let it be known that Rasmus’s research is suspended until further notice,” Vardalic announces authoritatively. “A new directive of a less compromising nature will be assigned.”

With that, the door opens, signaling Rasmus’s dismissal.


	3. Chapter 3

ESTHER was not surprised when the Overloards came for her. Since she began her intense exploration on the effect their presence had on the human psyche during her graduate studies, she half expected one of them to appear at any moment and put a stop to her cautionary flag-waving. But after several books, dozens of scholarly papers, and countless articles, she figured they had more important matters to deal with than one unruly subject.

When they did eventually reach out, it was with a rather unexpected reverence. They endeavored to better understand the human mind, she was told, and an expert in the field of behavioral sciences such as herself surely had valuable knowledge to impart. If nothing else, that sentiment alone had made her suspicious. After all, a human mind must seem an abacus compared to the supercomputer brains they possessed. What could they possibly have to learn? But like all their actions, the Overloards’ motives were explained in only the vaguest of terms. 

Today would be her second face-to-face meeting with an Overloard called Rasmus, who seemed to be some kind of scholar of the human race. He had gone through all the proper channels to arrange a meeting with her and the university had welcomed him with all the enthusiasm of a visiting head of state.

She and the head of the psychology department Jamison Lee now stand at the edge of the main greenspace on campus awaiting his arrival, the glaringly bright midday sun causing her to shield her eyes as she peers skyward. She was rather thankful that the president of the university and the dean had decided against a repeat of the grand welcoming party they gave the Overloard on his first visit, but the sight of a few reporters and cameras scattered among the gathered students made her uneasy.

Since her name began to garner attention in the world at large, she struggled to keep her public persona separate from her academic duties. Though the university certainly enjoyed the extra attention from their resident celebrity professor, she knew they would just as quickly disavow her work should their reputation come into question. Given the present circumstances, she could not help but feel she was playing a riskier hand than rationality would dictate.

Though her work was respected, published, and widely referenced, she was something of a known contrarian and malcontent. At best her critics called her an ignorant romantic, yearning for a human condition that no longer existed (if it ever really did). At worst, she was an antiquated Freedom Fighter rebelling against the dominance of the Overloards and spurning the gift of peace they brought to mankind. She knew neither scenario was entirely true and expected the Overloards could see through the hyperbole well enough.

In all actuality, it was music that brought her into the field of psychology. Like most people of her generation, she had bounded through her early studies with enthusiasm, picking up one area of academia for a time before giving in to another. When she landed in music theory during her undergrad, she became seduced by the perfect complexity of the classics: Bach, Beethoven, Brahms; Ravel, Rachmaninoff, Rossini. But the deeper she delved into her musical studies, she began to uncover an idea she could not shake. Where had the creative geniuses of her species gone?

Since the Overloards came to Earth, humankind had lost a certain something. The music composed since 1953, not to mention other works of art and craftsmanship, felt vapid and unoriginal by her estimation (though one could certainly argue fascination for the later works of Stravinsky). ‘The Importance of Strife: How the Overloards stole our humanity’ was the name of her first paper. She would go on to devote her doctoral thesis and first book to the same subject. Her work since then had been equally controversial but well-received.

She held a permanent position at Stanford University and lectured at some of the most prestigious institutions around the world. Such achievement by the age of 39 would have been unheard of in past eras, but the virtual Utopia the Overloards had instituted upon them enabled many such feats (she was loath to admit).

A commotion in the gathered crowd brings her attention back to ground. A young woman was being gently but effectually pushed away from the barrier fence campus security had erected that morning to ensure the Overloard’s ship would have an unimpeded landing space. The woman gives Esther an eager wave from behind the guard. 

It was the bothersome reporter from the Mercury News who covered the university beat with the exhaustive fervor of someone looking for conspiracies around every corner. Esther sighs and gives her a subtle nod in return; nothing too encouraging. She suspects the green reporter was chomping at the bit for juicer news than the university normally turned out these days.

Jamison suddenly elbows her with excitement. “There it is!”

Sure enough, all heads turned skyward as the glint from the small metallic ship appears overhead, growing in size as it rapidly descends. Esther squints as she watches the spherical shape come to rest before them, not quite touching the manicured lawn. The crowd is hushed though they jostle for a good viewing position.

Like their first brief meeting, this one had very purposefully gone unannounced by the university. It was the opinion of the higher-ups that until a clear understanding as to the intent of the meetings was established and agreed upon, the Overloard’s visit would be treated as a private affair. Of course, anything the Overloards got up to was of great interest to the people of Earth, so keeping such a visit under the radar was an impossibility. They had at least agreed to record the conversations--with some concessions--for posterity, if nothing else. 

When a doorway appears in the hull of the craft, the imposing form of an Overloard steps unhurriedly to the ground. Seemingly unaware of the multitude of eyes upon him, Rasmus takes a few long strides toward them. Esther had seen many images of them, naturally, but his presence remained a bit overwhelming. Not just for his sheer size, but also his undeniably monstrous appearance. It was as if Satan himself had come to pay a visit.

“How nice to see you again Dr. Ward, Dr. Lee,” Rasmus states cheerfully.

“It’s our pleasure, please,” Jamison gestures for the Overloard to follow them toward the psych building.

Eather’s mood had soured considerably. After Jamison left them in an empty lecture hall, the Overloard’s inquiries had meandered pointlessly for the better part of an hour, all the while sidestepping her questions with a casual ease that was a marvel to behold. She had the distinct impression this Rasmus was either merely entertaining himself or pursuing some line of thought that was utterly lost on her. If he was intent on discussing theories covered in undergraduate courses, why did he require a private audience? What’s more, she felt he was purposefully avoiding the elephant in the room that was her controversial opinions having mainly to do with him and his ilk, or at least keeping her in suspense.

Glancing at the wall clock, she at last clears her throat pointedly, interrupting his musings on social constructionism.

“I’m sorry to cut you off, but the university is eager to know a bit more about the intent of these meetings so that we can better … publicize. Not to mention, it would very helpful if I could prepare a bit beforehand, perhaps gather some reading materials-”

“Oh, you’re doing splendidly Dr. Ward, as I suspected you would. It’s as if I’m sitting in on one of your lectures.” He seems quite pleased about this.

“Which of course you are welcome to do, but I suppose I’m at a bit of a loss. Of all the other psychologists, professors, luminaries the world over, why me? That is to say, you haven’t touched on anything you can’t read in a book or yes, learn in one my courses.”

“Do you suspect ulterior motives?” He asks with some amusement.

Esther shoots him a knowing look. “Well if the shoes fits.”

He chuckles. “You have a particularly shrewd mind, which aligns with the distinct viewpoint of your writings quite well.”

“Ah yes, about that. I wonder: was it my ‘shrewd mind’ that brought you here, as you say, or the subject matter of my writings? Tell me, what did you think of ‘Manipulation and Mind Games’? Was I on point with your tactics?”

“Very interesting, indeed. But mainly I find your musings quite telling of the human psyche.”

“My psyche or …?”

“Well certainly yours, but also the attention your writings garner. Why is it that humans are so eager for conflict? You have global peace and yet you still seek out a fight.”

Avoiding the temptation to engage him in debate, she instead diverts his attention back to the matter at hand.

“So here’s the real question then: are you more interested in what I have to say, or whether the world at large is interested in what I have to say?”

“Your voice certainly has reach,” he concedes.

“Too much reach perhaps? Or too much truth?”

He holds her gaze steadily, his thoughts masked behind an expressionless face.

“My primary objective is to more fully understand the human mind, as I stated last time we met. And indeed there were many options available to aid my research, but when I ultimately came to you, garnering more favorable press--or rather, subverting unfavorable press--was a consideration.”

“So what are you then, their PR guy?” Esther balks indignantly. So much for being the top of her field!

“One could see it that way. But incidentally this brings up an important caveat to these meetings … assuming you’re still interested?”

Esther crosses her arms expectantly. “Well?”

“During the course of our interaction and thereafter I will require that you not publish or speak directly to anything having specifically to do with our discussions.”

Esther’s jaw drops in shock. “What?”

Rasmus watches her calmly, waiting for her to register his words.

“Then what’s the point of recording these conversations?”

“For the university, the public, whomever,” He tosses one of his great hands to the side. “That was your request and this is ours.”

“Yes, but we already conceded to your censoring the discussions before we could transcribe them,” Her words came in a rush. “What you’re asking for is total control of the output. I realize our laws mean little to you all, but free speech is pretty important around here.”

“You are still welcome to speak with anyone you wish, give interviews and such,” He seems unfazed by her concern. “The matter is simply that any false or presumptuous conjectures as to the purpose or imagined underlying meaning of these discussions would be less than beneficial for all parties concerned.”

“Ah!” Esther exclaims impulsively. “And here I thought you admired my work! This seems more like an effort to shut me up.”

“Not at all. I am interested in your thoughts on particular matters, but less so in creating a … sensation. Surely you understand the need for such measures when conducting research.”

“Controversial research, perhaps,” Esther fishes, but he does not bite. “There seems to be less and less benefit for the university in this; less benefit for me.”

“Yes, well, I suppose there are other academics who would appreciate this experience for what it is rather than for personal gain,” He says evenly. “You are under no obligation to speak with me, Dr. Ward.”

Esther shakes her head slowly. She had stated herself that it was through the illusion of freedom that the Overloards maintained their control. It seemed this scenario would be no different.


	4. Chapter 4

ESTHER didn’t make it to her office until after lunch. Though irresponsible on her part, she had left a capable TA in charge of her morning class. She intended to do a bit of catch-up before her 2 o’clock, but her brain remained in a fog. This mood was decidedly different than any of her previous postcoital reveries; less euphorious, more ominous. Why had she been left alone after their encounter? More importantly, why had he brought her to headquarters? As far as she knew, no human had ever made it beyond the Supervisor’s fabled meeting room. Would he contact her again?

She laughs at this thought. Like a schoolgirl! But had she orgasmed in the name of scientific discovery? Of course not. Her desire was real. But what of his motives? They were vague, naturally. She sighs in frustration and turns her attention out the window. The wind had picked up and gray clouds were being quickly ushered in from the coast. As she watches them, a melody from the erotic dance in the opera Salome pops into her head. She begins to hum the famously tragic yet lust-filled refrain and can’t help but smile. This piece would certainly be included on the soundtrack to their tryst.

She jumps up to her neatly organized wall of records--she finds more use for them here than at home--and pulls out the album. Placing it on the record player, she wanders back to her seat as the pop and hiss of the needle give way to the first dramatic drum beats. Closing her eyes, she leans back in her chair and listens intently to the music. It’s subtle shifts and coy measures, combined with the more pleasant memories of the night before, lull her into a state of reverie.

As the piece comes to its dramatic conclusion, she sits in silence for a moment, struggling to keep her mind clear. Just then, she hears an unfamiliar, mechanical chime. She opens her eyes, but no one has entered her office. When the chime sounds again, she realizes it is coming from her handbag and remembers the device she absconded from the vessel this morning. Sure enough, it was still in the side pocket where she had hurriedly stashed it, and a small light was flashing on its top. She studies it for a moment, turning it over in her hands, before lightly grazing the flashing light with her fingers. In an instant, the music of Strauss fills the room once more. The sound reverberates clearly off the walls, but its origin, though undoubtedly this device, seems unclear. She looks down at it with a shock and the music dies down. It is then followed by the unmistakable garbled language of the Overloards. She sits still for a moment, unsure what she just did or ought to do next.

“Hello?” She says, stupidly.

A small click is followed by a voice, speaking in English.

“Dance of the Seven Veils by German Composer Richard Strauss from the opera Salome. Nineteenth century. More information?”

“No.” Esther says quickly, shocked to discover the nature of this little device. Like her handheld, but smarter, naturally.

“Share message?”

“Share message?” She repeats back.

But there’s another soft chime and the device goes dark.

“Hello? Share message? What? With who?” She says this in more of a panic than an expectation of an answer, which of course doesn’t come.

She sets the red cylinder on her desk gingerly and looks at it for a moment, hoping she’s not just begun an unintended chain of events.

There’s a soft tap at her door.

She clears her throat. “Ah, come in.”

Her TA sticks his head tentatively around the door.

“Dr. Ward? I heard the music so I knew you were back,” he starts. “I guess you don’t need me to cover your next class then?”

“No no.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for that by the way. Something came up. I couldn’t get here. I would have left word but ...”

He smiles and waves his hand nonchalantly. “It’s no problem. We continued the discussion on emotional repression and dreams from last week. I didn’t assign any reading because I wasn’t sure if you wanted to skip chapter six or continue on or what.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Jason.”

He nods and closes the door softly.

She glances at the clock on the wall. Ten til two. She’d better get going. She scoops the device off her desk and places it back in her bag, not sure what else to do with it. She’ll have to remember to be careful what she does around the infernal thing.

Tanya is trying a new approach to reach the great Esther Ward. She had written and called, numerous times, only to be referred to assistants or the dreaded media relations. The doctor had never been particularly easy to reach, but at least she had always given interviews when something new was being published. But ever since her audiences with the Overloard began some months ago, she had all but disappeared. Sure, she had delivered the transcripts to anyone who asked, but they revealed absolutely nothing newsworthy and were probably only interesting to her students.

She had tried speaking with the doctor when she met with the Overloard, but the university ran a tightly-controlled ship where the press was fed the same, dull information time and again. This time, however, she tried to catch her before one of her lectures. Not through any pre-arranged meeting, since that would get her nowhere, but just a seemingly casual encounter. What were the chances then that Dr. Ward would miss her first class? According to the assistant who had filled in for her, the absence was entirely unexpected.

She finds this fact very curious. How unlike the doctor who, in her experience, seemed to spend more time at the campus than anywhere. Frustrated but determined, Tanya had been hanging around the corridors of Jordan Hall for nearly four hours now.

She is sure there is something more to the Overloards’ dealings with Dr. Ward. How else to explain their most outspoken critic’s sudden silence? Did the usually impassive Overloards actually care what the reliably cynical doctor, always eager to lend a delightfully controversial soundbite, had to say about them? And by what means had they silenced her? 

Other news outlets had contemplated the matter, but the few statements Dr. Ward issued seemed to quell their curiosity, or at least convince them the story was not worth pursuing. Tanya was not so certain this was the case. What’s more, she had her own motives. In the past, the doctor had given her a scant few interviews, but saved the juiciest details for The Times or The Globe. While the Mercury News may be a local paper, it had given the doctor’s work more serious, less sensationalized press than any other outlet, mainly due to Tanya’s efforts. The way she sees it, Dr. Ward owes her a scoop.

Even so, four hours is a long time to wait. As she contemplates bringing her steakout to an end, Tanya nearly misses the doctor suddenly rush past.

“Dr. Ward!” She calls after her, hurrying to catch up.

As the doctor glances over her shoulder, Tanya can see exasperation cloud her already distracted features. She would have to be quick about it. Without losing a beat, she thrusts her recorder toward the doctor, who doesn’t slow her pace.

“Dr. Ward, I’m so glad to bump into you. Can you give me some more insight into your recent discussions with the Overloard?”

“I really don’t have the time for this now. Besides, media relations has all the information-”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with them, thank you. But specifically I’m wondering if these meetings have altered any of your previous opinions? You said in the past that the Overloards use our own psychology against us. Have you found that to be true?”

“The Overloards are continually … surprising.” Dr. Ward shakes her head, a half smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “No matter what new information I’m made privy to, I feel I’m always in the dark.”

Tanya blinks in surprise. This is perhaps the most gentle words she’s ever heard Dr. Ward speak on the subject of the Overloards. “What new information? Something outside the transcripts?”

She stops in front of a classroom, shifting a stack of files and papers from one arm to the other. “I’m sorry, but I have a class to teach.”

“Please, Dr. Ward, can we arrange another time to chat?”

With her free hand, the doctor yanks open an oversized door. “Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps,” she calls behind her as the door swings shut.

Tanya stops the recorder and moves away from the door as a few errant students wander by. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give her a few ideas.


	5. Chapter 5

ESTHER stands naked in front of her bedroom mirror, examining her less-than-perfect form. She takes another sip of wine and runs her hand down her hip. She’d never been a beauty queen, but was far from undesirable. She was curvaceous, womanly, and she felt no shame in this. But she tries to imagine herself through another’s eyes; through his eyes. It wasn’t easy. Did she seem grotesque to him, like an animal or carnival freak? Or had he learned to appreciate human beauty? She hopes for the later.

Liszt’s Liebesträum plays softly in the background. It fit her mood well this evening. It has been some time since she last made love, after all. But she quickly corrects herself. It was not lovemaking, what they did last night. It was sexual, to be sure, but love? No.

She had become exceptionally good at separating her head from her heart; her emotional being from her physical. Since her divorce, she had many partners and relished in each of them, in their own way. But she learned to let them go when their attention waned without feeling heartbroken. Her generation had undoubtedly mastered the art of “many loves” and it was in everyone’s best interest to play along. Unfortunately, where others took advantage of the freedom global peace provided and traveled without abandon, she prefered to stay put and grow roots.

She slides into a vintage, flocked velvet robe and wanders into her living room. She went out of her way to find this Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired design, as he was one of the last great architects before they came. But she loved it’s linear lines, generous spaces, wide open windows. Perhaps she was old fashioned; nostalgic for a time she would never know. Older generations called her ilk ungrateful and unappreciative of the world they were to inherit. She had never known war, famine, disease, or poverty. When the Overlords came, an age of prosperity hitherto unknown to humankind had begun. Why then was she so skeptical?

“How dare I?” she laughs aloud to no one. She’s a bit drunk.

She flops down onto the couch and sighs heavily. She would very much like to see him again. She would like to see what hid under his trousers.

A flashing light emanating from her purse grabs her attention. The music-playing device! She sets her glass down and pulls out the cylinder. When had it begun flashing? She touches the top and the room is filled with the sudden, forceful blows of horns and rhythmic strings. But the tune is unmistakable: Dance of The Knights from Romeo and Juliet. She’s confirmed when the little voice again announces the details of the piece.

But where did this song come from? She hadn’t played music from the ballet. She frowns. What message did she send earlier, and to whom, exactly? It dawns on her that Rasmus could have intentionally left this thing for her to find. It must be a way to communicate hidden from the usual channels. She presses the light and the darkly atmospheric song plays once again.

If that was the case, what could he be communicating to her? He must have received the first piece she sent, which was loaded with subtext. She’s a bit embarrassed by this notion. So this song then, from the ballet of the famously ill-fated lovers, what does it signify? Her heart skips a beat at the implication, but she reminds herself that things did not turn out so well for those two. If she remembers correctly, the dance is early on and casts a foreboding shadow over their merrymaking. Could he have run into some trouble?

She paces about the room in thought, still holding the cylinder. Should she try to send another message? If so, must she keep it encoded through music? But how to respond … If she were in her office, she’d begin pulling records from the shelf like mad.

A wicked idea flashes through her mind. She wanted to see him again, didn’t she?

“Habanera from Carmen,” she speaks into the device, hoping such a technique will work.

A series of small lights trail up and down the grooves of the cylinder for a brief moment.

“Habanera from the opera Carmen by French Composer Georges Bizet. Play?”

“Yes,” she responds, pleased.

The rich voice of the famous seductress fills the room as she sings of the fickle and dangerous nature of love. Esther laughs at this little jest and wonders what Rasmus will make of it.

“Share message?” The voice asks at the piece’s coy conclusion.

“Share message.”

Esther’s train of thought, or rather, the string of operatic tunes flitting through her mind as she works, is derailed abruptly when her office phone rings.

“Dr. Ward? This is Tanya Candillo from the Mercury News. How are you?”

She doesn’t respond immediately; she had entirely forgotten about the pushy reporter who ambushed her in the hallway the day before. 

“Is this a good time? I just wanted follow up on our conversation from yesterday,” she says, not waiting for a response. “You said you were made privy to new information. Can you elaborate?”

Esther curses herself for making such a careless remark. She and the university had intentionally withheld some details of their arrangement with the Overloards. The publicity was good, but the censorship would seem deceptive. She would have to navigate this interview carefully.

“Well, the transcripts you’ve undoubtedly read are essentially the boiled-down versions of our conversations.”

“Meaning they’re edited? By who?”

“The Overloards are interested in us and how we think in ways which I suspect we don’t fully understand,” Esther presses on. “But as with any conversation, information flows both ways, right? So some casual or irrelevant remarks made by Rasmus or myself are simply taken out.”

“Maybe some of the remarks that have been left out would be of interest? Perhaps, after all this time, you’ve gained some additional information about their motives?”

Esther sighs. Though she was more than resentful of the gag order imposed on her, with time she understood the restriction allowed Rasmus to divulge astounding facts unknown to any other person on Earth. How could she possibly explain what she knew, even if given the freedom to do so? She often lay awake at night pondering the Overloards’ strange existence, aching to share the sacred details. 

A race engineered for space travel lasting decades or longer, their lifespans nearly limitless, they had watched their predecessors go extinct and their planet of origin become uninhabitable. Though their artificial evolution granted them something close to physical and mental perfection, their species lacked some essential and universal ingredient to life; something which compelled them to travel the galaxy and study other species to find. Rasmus had compared the missing element to a soul and the irony was not lost on Esther. Like fallen angels, they would roam endlessly, seeking deliverance. 

But there was something deeper, some bigger purpose she had not yet coaxed from him that lent their motives a certain melancholy and futility. She sensed there was a greater force at play that necessitated their mysterious secrecy. Someone, or something, to which the Overloards were beholden. 

Of course, she could say none of this to the reporter. Perhaps she’s selfish, or foolish, or both, but she feels a certain loyalty--a bond--that she does not want to betray. 

“I’m afraid they remain as stony and mysterious as ever.” She says simply.

Tanya laughs. “Yes, well perhaps your psychological insight will eventually crack through that stony exoskeleton of theirs.”

“They don’t have an exoskeleton,” she says amusedly, but instantly regrets her words.

“No?”

“I mean, it’s clearly rigid outwear of some kind. Perhaps you have to be close up to see it. In any case, even if I were a clinician--which I’m not--I seriously doubt they’d let me worm about in their heads.”

“Yes, of course. But what of your last meeting with the Overloard? Will any details be made available about that?”

Esther hesitates. “I believe the transcript has already been released.”

“Has it already? From Monday night?”

Esther inhales sharply, suddenly panicked. How had she found out?

“No, there is no transcript for that yet.”

“I thought so. It seemed to be a rather long discussion, eh?”

She swallows hard. “You know, I’m running a bit short on time. Perhaps we’ll chat again soon.”

“Yes, and you’ll let me know about the transcripts?”

“Yes.” Ester drops the phone back in its cradle. She blinks, stunned, before slumping down onto her desk.

Since the World Federation was established, national governments had become far less important as did their politicians. With their demise, the lurid scandals of the past were all but forgotten. However, it seems she had just as quickly brought them back.

With her head all but resting on her desk, she easily catches sight of the blinking light in the drawer. She watches it blink for a moment--in a mild state of anxiety-born paralysis, no doubt--before pulling it out to play the message.

She’s perplexed when she realizes it’s Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix from the opera Samson and Delilah. In the aria, Delilah wooes Samson so she can learn the secret of his strength. She betrays Samson in the end, causing him to famously pull down the temple pillars and kill everyone.

If she was hoping to find any sort of reassurance through Rasmus, it seems she would be disappointed.


	6. Chapter 6

RASMUS was directly defying orders. But he felt the research in which he had invested considerable time had only just reached a critical apex. If he were only allowed a bit more time, allowed to push the boundaries of standard protocol just a bit further, he was sure he would come upon something quite novel.

These creatures, these chosen creatures, were at once simple and extraordinary. The emotional consciousness they shared held more significance, he believed, than the writings of any of their scholars. This woman, Esther Ward, had freely offered him a glimpse of a uniquely human experience. As a scholar himself, whose primary research had been devoted to examining human nature, he would have been foolish to ignore the opportunity.

They had observed many races, invested immense resources to discover their inner workings, collected artifacts, created exhaustive compendia, yet all the information seemed to exist in a vacuum. Data is useless without context. Rasmus often wondered if the answers they sought, if ever discovered, would prove to be far less valuable than the knowledge and experiences gained along the way.

The subtleties of human communication, for instance, could never be displayed in a museum. Esther had used the messenger he left for her in a most amusing way. Borrowing music from the past, which gathered new meaning and significance as it was passed through each successive generation of minds and culture, she was able to convey a wealth of information that would likely go unnoticed by his superiors. It was ingenious, really, and despite his better judgment he had responded in kind. However, when he heard her most recent message, a woeful lament sung by the heartbroken queen Dido before her death, he felt very sorry about the whole affair.

He had long ago learned that most human communication followed worn patterns with predictable outcomes. But each interaction carried its own emotional weight that could be used to one’s advantage. Though her message was an intentionally overwrought sentimentality underlined with manipulation, he was careful to consider the emotional state that prompted such an expression. This was a bit less easy to predict.

Perhaps his zeal for mankind was no longer serving their greater purpose, as Vardalic suggested. Could he rationalize his attachment to this woman as anything other than sentimental? Rasmus’s training and knowledge held its own value, but once their mission on Earth was complete, it would have little use. Did it matter, in the end, if they reassigned him elsewhere now or later? What did he risk for one last encounter?

> Outspoken critic of the Overloards and recent subject of interest to them Esther Ward, Ph.D., has taken her hitherto public meetings with the individual Rasmus off the record and off the university’s premises.
> 
> In a phone conversation Wednesday, Ward confirmed she had met with the Overloard Monday night and, for the first time, outside Stanford’s campus. Though a transcription from the most recent meeting has not been made available, Ward stated that certain details have been intentionally removed from the previous transcripts.
> 
>   
>  “The transcripts ... are essentially the boiled-down versions of our conversations,” Ward said.
> 
> On Monday, one of the Overloards’ transport shuttles was tracked by the California Department of Atmospheric and Oceanic Research as it landed on San Miguel Rd., less than a half-mile from Ward’s residence outside Carmel. After a brief landing, the shuttle returned to the Overloads’ main ship at the upper reaches of Earth’s stratosphere. Glen Freeman, a technician with the CDAOR, stated that another transport shuttle touched down in the same spot the following morning at 7:25 a.m. He could not confirm if the two sightings were the same vessel.
> 
> The last meeting made public between Ward and the Overload Rasmus, whose principal interest seems to be the human mind, was over three weeks ago. The topic of discussion centered on human sexuality. In the past, Stanford University has made the transcriptions available shortly after each meeting. When asked to comment, Jamison Lee, head of the Department of Behavioral Sciences, could offer only guesses.
> 
> “Dr. Ward has indicated that the meetings are requested only a few days in advance,” Lee said. “The Overloard brings his own recording device which he lends to us after the fact to transcribe.”
> 
> Lee confirmed that it is unusual to wait more than three weeks for a meeting and said he had no prior knowledge of Ward’s meeting Monday night.
> 
> “The Overloards are continually surprising.” Dr. Ward said. “No matter what new information I’m made privy to, I feel I’m always in the dark.”
> 
> Though Dr. Ward would not provide details about new information, she said the Overloards’ motives remain a mystery.
> 
> “The Overloards are interested in us in ways which we don’t fully understand,” Ward said.
> 
> She also offered unconfirmed information gleaned from her first-hand experience: “[The Overloards] have no exoskeleton.”
> 
> Dhiya Prashad, Ph.D., professor of biology at the University of Santa Cruz, said that while it is difficult to make speculations about an unstudied life form, what appears to be an exoskeleton may in fact be artificial. As part of a larger effort to better understand the Overloards, Prashad has analyzed footage and recordings ...  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

THOUGH she hoped nothing would come of her conversation with the reporter, Esther was not surprised to find more than a dozen messages waiting for her in the office the next day. She had managed to dodge further inquiries and even a few photographers, but it wasn’t long before one of her coworkers brought her the offending article, feigning shock and empathy.

She left Jason in charge of her last class and made a quick escape shortly thereafter. When she reaches home, she plans for nothing more than a stiff drink and long nap. A prolonged sequestration seemed a reasonable option at this point.

As she wearily walks through her front door, she’s stopped cold when she sees a dark, nightmarish form hunched in her living room. In the dimmed space his imposing presence is utterly sinister. In fact, he seems altogether a different being than the one with whom she shared intimacies only a few nights before.

“I’m sorry to startle you,” he says, shaking her from her stupor. “I meant to be discreet.”

“What are you doing here?” She’s suddenly panicked. “Did anyone see you?”

“Possibly,” Rasmus seems uncharacteristically perplexed. “I thought you were distressed.”

She gawks at him for a moment as she steadily begins to boil over with a confusing, uncontrolled mix of anger, shame, regret, fear, and God knows what else.

“Worried about me now, are you? Or perhaps you’re here for a bit more research? Well sorry to say I’m considerably less willing now!”

“That’s not why I’m here.” He states flatly.

“Why then? Do you want to discuss Carl Jung some more?” She seethes. “I’m afraid if you’d like to learn about the collective unconscious, you’ll have to enroll in the spring semester.”

Rasmus cocks his head curiously.

“We’ve been found out.” Esther over pronounces each word before dropping the paper, folded to the malicious article, at his feet.

He picks it up and quickly scans the print.

“I see.”

“Do you? Then you must understand this jeopardizes my entire career. What am I supposed to do now?” Her cheeks burn in anger and for once his cool temperament does not calm her.

“I suspect your career will recover.”

She throws her hands up in exasperation.

“Well I hope you got some good material out of it anyway. Do you realize I’m going to be a laughing stock?”

Rasmus shakes his head slowly and she can see a subtle shift in his expression.

“You’re not considering the larger implications. You’re too distraught-”

“Yes Rasmus, I am distraught. This is my life we’re talking about here,” she plants a palm firmly on her chest. “All the theory, research, science in the world isn’t going to justify what we did.”

He chuckles lightly. “Would you still say that if this article hadn’t been published?”

She scowls at him.

“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you come back?”

“I just think there’s more to be understood and, perhaps, to be made understood.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’m not a subject for study; some kind of experiment. Is that what you thought?”

“Everything is a subject for study. Marking yourself as an exception is terribly narrow-minded.”

He was right, of course. But that’s certainly not what she wants to hear.

“And what about you? Are you so free from scrutiny?”

She doesn’t let him respond before pressing on, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction.

“No. I don’t think you even know what you’re doing here. You’ve spent decades, centuries for all I know, studying Earth, obsessing over the minutiae of every human interaction, you’ve totally lost yourself. So infatuated you’ve become with us humans the study alone wasn’t enough anymore, was it?” She jeers. “No. You needed a piece of it for yourself.

“You think yourself a regular Jane Goodall, don’t you? Except as far as I’m aware, she never fucked any of her apes.”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me now, doctor?” He says with some amusement, unphased by her harsh words. “Though I do recall you saying Freudian theory was beneath you.”

Her cheeks flush. The bastard forgot nothing. She sighs with frustration and turns out of the room.

“I’m making myself a martini. What’ll you have, dear?”

He doesn’t respond to her mockery, merely sits impassively on the floor. He would not be able to stand in the room without hunching over awkwardly and her furniture certainly would not accommodate his immense form. Looking at him now, he seems like a giant in a child-sized playroom. Perhaps he saw her that way as well; as a play thing.

She shakes the gin and ice with rather more force than necessary and dumps it ungracefully into a glass. She doesn’t bother with a garnish before taking a long swallow of the bitter spirits.

“So what now?” She asks, a bit more composed, as she sets to making another drink.

He doesn’t respond right away.

“You’re not the only one who will suffer consequences. My superiors are far from pleased.”

The idea of the Overloards discussing their encounter makes her smirk. “What will happen?”

“I’ll be reassigned.”

“Off to lead on other women elsewhere in the world? You’d better be careful; your reputation might precede you now.” She laughs sardonically but he’s less amused.

“No. Analysis for a time, I imagine, before … before there’s a new race to be known.”

This catches her off guard. Surely such a reassignment would be akin to her abandoning psychology to learn the finer points of geology. “But I thought the study of humans was your life’s work. Isn’t there some value to that; some permanence?”

He laughs very softly. “I’ve had the same thought. But a life’s work, by human standards, is … trivial, in the long run. As you know, it’s easy to forget oneself in one’s work and lose sight of the bigger picture.”

He sighs, resigned, and adjusts his pretzeled position.

“I envy you, you know. There’s such purpose to a human life, such completion.”

His demeanor has become somber and despite herself she feels a surge of sympathy. Indeed, her problems suddenly seem rather small.

“This article may be a hindrance to you, or not,” he says, shifting the conversation. “You are not without control. You can accept their judgement and become the hypocrite you fear yourself to be, or you can use this situation to your advantage.”

“What do you suggest?” Intrigued, she slides into the armchair closest to him.

He turns his gaze out the window overlooking the sylvan hillside descending gracefully toward the coast. The evening blanket of fog is shorn apart at intervals by the gnarled cypresses as it glides swiftly by. Through the bare patches of sky, faint pinpricks of light glimmer their way through the infinite caverns of space and time for their eyes to behold or ignore, as they please.

“You know of the biblical Esther?” He says at last.

Of course she knew. Though her name was a holdover from an inherited faith that few practiced in this age of science, the lessons gleaned from the old tales were still whispered in reverence.

“She was the queen who freed the Jews in Persia.”

Rasmus nods. “Yes. She gave power back to her people. You’ve learned information over the past months--days--that no other human knows. Knowledge has great power.”

“Are you lifting my gag order?” She says incredulously. “You want me to tell your secrets to save my skin?”

“There are no secrets, only truths yet uncovered,” he says slyly. “It’s understandable that your kind is fixated on us right now, and you can certainly satiate that appetite for a time, but perhaps in the future you’ll even discover the truth that we seek.”

A smile tugs as the corners of her mouth as she begins to understand where he’s leading her.

“But what about you?”

He waves her concern away. A human gesture, she thinks, that he’ll have to unlearn soon enough.

“What about me?” She says quietly, and mostly to herself. The past months of her life have been completely filled with him, she realizes. Whether together or apart, at odds or of the same mind, she has allowed him more headroom than she had anyone in recent memory. While their psychical entanglement had been the perfect culmination to their dalliance, it was the slow buildup to that point that had given her life as of late such rich and vivid texture. Facing his sudden, imminent absence she feels an unexpected pang of sorrow crawl through her skin and seize hold of her consciousness.

“You …” He laughs gently. “You should focus more on the accomplishments of the human race rather than ideals you’ve yet to achieve. You are a remarkable species. I will miss this place,” he says, and then more softly, “I’ll miss you.”

He holds her gaze, his face still but eyes deeply tender and ever calm. Unable to find any words, she reaches her hand out toward him. He grasps it in his with a gentle, affectionate squeeze. Their eyes shift to the window as the fog begins to lift, revealing the spectacular, endless night sky. There is a quietness to their touch; an acknowledgment and silent farewell. They remain such for a time, each searching the expansive darkness before them.

Esther doesn’t sleep. She cries and feels ashamed, but she is human, after all. When she turns on her computer around 3 a.m., she stares at the blinking cursor for a long while, composing her thoughts. At last, she types out a working title: ‘Inside The Mothership: A firsthand look into the Overloards’ being and motives.’ By Esther Ward, Ph.D.

If that doesn’t redeem her reputation, she thinks, nothing will.


End file.
